A Better Man
by A Wanderer in the Snow
Summary: A man lies in Azkaban Prison, unable to think, to talk, unable to remember who he is or why is even there.


**A Better Man**

* * *

The storm lashed against the granite outside and the waves came high enough to throw salt spray through the barred window. The wind moaned through the gap under the door and the candle sizzled, barely holding a flame to the gloom that threatened to engulf it. At first glance the tiny room appeared empty; an iron framed bedstead, a table and a chair were all that stood there. The mattress on the bed was soaked from the sea water that was trickling down over the slick stone from the window above.

A shadow breezed past the door outside and the candle guttered again.

A few moments later a cacophony of howls began that would last all night; a wail of bestial misery that accompanied the presence of the Azkaban Guard. A door creaked open some distance away, but the following breeze was enough to put the single candle out completely, if anything, it was a miracle it had not gone out hours ago.

Something stirred in the corner of the cell, barely seen in the shadows of the empty night. Threadbare, grey robes moved and hair appeared, accompanied by eyes that gleamed strangely in the non-light; a symptom of any prolonged exposure to the Azkaban Guard.

Somewhere, behind that mad stare and hidden beneath that grey robe, was a man, or what had once been man. The eyes gleamed for a moment longer, but then the screams began to subside; the Guard had moved on. Dull indifference glazed over him; not just his face, but his entire body. It was as though he didn't care about the cold, the damp, the fact that he was curled against freezing stone in a tiny corner; or maybe he just hadn't noticed.

Love, laughter and light had once shone in those eyes; nothing shone there anymore.

* * *

Food had appeared at some point; a bowl of porridge, a hunk of bread and a second bowl of water.

He was starving, but he wasn't hungry.

He was thirsty, but he didn't want to drink.

Lank hair hung down past his gaunt cheeks and sunken eyes; he wasn't sure when he last moved. Maybe it had been days, weeks. Or merely minutes. He couldn't be sure.

He could barely remember who he was.

He didn't know why he was here.

A shadow swept past the doorway and he began to scream.

* * *

There had been a man once; that much he thought he knew. Or maybe he had always been in this grey cell, maybe it had been a dream.

_Prisoners of Azkaban don't have dreams._

No, only living nightmares.

Where had they come from then? The memories that clustered around his head like moths around a flame; getting closer and closer until they burst into flame and withered away.

_Memories._

That's what they were; not dreams, but memories. They had been real once, once.

All that was real now was grey stone and cold wind from the sea.

_The sea._

The sea, there had been a calm sea once and people.

There were no people in Azkaban; only prisoners, prisoners in their own minds.

_Not people, boys. A boy._

A door slammed shut and the screaming grew to a crescendo.

He clung on desperately, but the sea turned wild and he couldn't see the faces of the boys. He was choking, suffocating, drowning…

* * *

He woke in the grey light; there was never any other kind.

_Sea. Boys. Boy._

He wasn't just a boy though was he?

There had been a girl too. She had dark hair and laughing green eyes.

_Two girls. _

The dark hair belonged to someone else, someone who had left before.

_The boy._

He didn't want to think; he was tired, he wanted to sleep, sleep until he didn't have to care any more.

_Care._

That was it. Someone had _cared_. Once upon a time, someone had _cared_.

It wasn't a feeling, or a thought; it was simply a fact. Once, at some point, someone had _cared_.

From there it grew easier; even if piecing each thought to the next was akin to carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Maybe his mind was just weak.

There had been a boy once, and a girl. The girl came later. The boy though; he had been a… a… he couldn't find the word. It was there and it wasn't, it was floating out of reach.

A shadow came to a halt at the door.

Dull eyes stared at it for a moment, then they began to gleam.

Screaming followed within moments.

* * *

_Friend._

The thought woke him in the utter, pitch, blackness.

To him though, it was like sunlight.

_There had been more._

Three of them; brothers, comrades, friends. But one in particular; there had never been anything like him before, not on this earth.

A girl. There had been a girl. Boy and girl. They made a pair.

_A boy._

'Harry.'

The voice was surprisingly loud; it croaked, cracked and rasped its way up his throat and clawed its way out of his broken lips.

He wanted water.

He unfolded himself ever so slowly; it had been days since he had moved, weeks even. Or had it been minutes? Months? Every limb protested and groaned, but it didn't matter; there was life yet.

The water tasted sweet and cold, despite the chalky flakes that drifted on the surface.

* * *

There had been a man and a woman, and they had been his friends. There had been a child too, an orphan now.

They had died; died because he had been unable to protect them; died because he had convinced them to be clever, to put their faith in the wrong man.

The rat had sold them out. He could hardly call it surprise; he had known there was a spy in the Order for months.

Lily and James had died and he had hunted down the rat that had sold them out.

When it came down to it though, the rat had escaped. Escaped into the sewers where he belonged, but he killed too. Thirteen people had died. He got away. Only a finger was left behind; a severed finger.

Then there was nothing but the wreckage of the street, the bodies and the Aurors apparating into the smoke around him. All he could do was laugh. It was that or cry.

He had never been very good at crying.

The most ignorant, the most cowardly, the most inept wizard he had ever met had fooled them all. The last joke was on him and so were the manacles of Azkaban.

He began to chuckle; not out of joy, or happiness.

The chuckle expanded and it became a laugh; a full-bellied, shaking laugh.

His name was Sirius Orion Black. He was a Godfather. And he was _innocent._

* * *

An unusual sound echoed down the hallway; the sound of booted feet on stone. An inspection. One came every year.

He stood up and faced the door.

The feet came to halt outside and there was clink of keys being passed, then they ground in the lock and the door swung open.

'Good Morning, Minister,' he croaked.

The man looked astonished, 'I… er… Mr Black, isn't it?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'I… er… are you well?'

It was a ridiculous question, addressed to a starved man wearing rags, but it served it's purpose.

'I daresay I am.'

Tucked under the man's arm was a lime green bowler hat and a briefcase, and sticking out of the briefcase was a…

'Is that a copy of today's Prophet, Minister?'

'I… er… Yes, yes, I believe it is,' the small man stammered.

'You wouldn't mind if I borrowed it, would you? I miss doing the crossword.' He said, gesturing to the six copies of the Daily Prophet on the table behind him; six copies representing six Inspections, representing six years. Six years since he had recovered his sanity enough to think and stand and walk.

'Um… yes, why not?'

The small man tugged out the paper folds and handed them to him.

'Thank you, Sir.'

'Well, er… Goodbye then, Mr Black, must get on.'

'Of course.'

The door closed and the key grated in the lock, footsteps walked away.

There was a photograph of a family on the front page; a woman and a lot of boys, in Egypt by the looks of the pyramids in the background, but he wasn't interested in that. What he was interested in was the small creature on one of the boy's shoulders'.

It was a rat.

It was missing a toe.


End file.
